Free Knight Everlasting by Jackie Ivie Page B

her spine was impossible to ignore.
    â€œI’ll be-be-be up by then, A-A-Aidan. Swear,” Arran told him.
    â€œI ken as much. In the meantime, enjoy your rest. And your company.”
    â€œSo . . . wh-wh-what do you w-w-want to talk of?” Arran’s stutter was even more pronounced when he looked at her through the talking. It took a while to get the sentence out. Juliana calmly waited, with her head cocked and her hands folded atop her knees, giving him her full attention.
    â€œOh . . . we’re going to talk of your eldest brother,” she replied. “What else?”
    Arran was looking over her shoulder at his brother. She didn’t have to check. She knew.

Chapter 6
    Juliana attended the burial and consecration, despite every effort at avoiding it. She hadn’t much choice, since her captor seemed to know everywhere she was, and when. Even now he hovered at her side, making certain of her attendance. She wasn’t singled out, since she’d heard him order them all there, but it felt like it.
    Usually in the aftermath of battle, the dead were buried where they fell. Or the bodies were burned. Or left to rot. Or displayed as a warning.
    Juliana sighed. Nothing was usual about this. Thanks to her talk with Arran, she knew the difference. And she knew why.
    Arran MacKetryck had been a font of information without asking for any of it. Once he got some food and three tankards of ale into him anyway. He’d spent the morn and into the afternoon regaling her with stories, and he’d lost most of his stuttering as well.
    Juliana now knew MacKetryck land was north of Inverness, well away from any wars and conflicts over the Scot throne. They didn’t worry over who claimed kingship since the Norman line died away. Could be John Balliol for all they cared, although the rebellion had faltered, leaving Dunbar Castle, Edinburgh Castle, Stirling Castle, and Perth Castles in English hands; could be Robert Bruce, although he’d lost the great cause five years earlier in the vote for Balliol. The fact that it was now King Edward taking, and killing in the taking, was just further reason to avoid the Sassenach.
    Arran rarely heard of such doings. In the Highlands, land and property were a fluid affair and always fought over. One man claiming total rule meant little. Proving the rule was what mattered. Aside from which, the best challenge and win was over another Highland clan. Always. Anything else was of little value. This included English-held properties, with the effeminate, overpowdered, and frilled lords and sheriffs that owned them. English landowners were detested. As were any Lowlanders that welcomed them.
    So it was with Clan MacKetryck.
    They hailed from the farthest reaches north, from a bastion called Castle Ketryck. It was named after some forebearer, who’d killed a Viking king in order to possess it. Arran didn’t remember the Viking king’s name and Juliana had stopped him from yelling for Aidan to get the information. It didn’t matter. All that mattered to her was time passing.
    According to Arran, the name “Ketryck” had been changed sometime in the past to the surname “MacKetryck,” since the “Mac” stood for “son of.” Juliana hadn’t known that. She didn’t know much about Highlanders at all. With her upbringing, it wasn’t possible to come into contact with one of them long enough to learn any of this.
    As the only daughter of Baron D’Aubenville, and heiress to all his holdings, Juliana had been well above any contact with them. Previously.
    So Juliana nodded and frowned and listened or pretended to listen, and all the while she felt the time passing. A weight of time. A solid thickness of time. A whole span of time that no one could gain back. Her father would be awake in his grave if he knew where his daughter was and with whom.
    If they’d put him in a grave after displaying him atop Fyfen